Detective Calamity
by InzanityFirez
Summary: Sherlock has suddenly returned from the 'dead' with expectations to pick up where he left off, but things have changed and John's got a new life. But when Sherlock is drawn into a case involving a cursed ring, Sherlock and John are hurtled into a new world and new bodies like nothing they've seen before. Enter Dragon!Sherlock and Hobbit!John.
1. Once There Was a Detective

**So. Dragonlock. Smauglock. Johnbo. However you'd like to call it. This is going to happen. Will Sherlock and John end up a couple? I'd be happy if they did. If I have overwhelming fan demand for them to be brothers though, I could be persuaded to keep them as such. XD In either case...expect Mycroft and Lestrade to make appearances in Middle Earth. [Can you imagine Mycroft trying to pull big brother rank on Dragon!Sherlock?] Maybe Moriarty. Hmm. This takes place two years after the end of season 2. Some license has been taken. Particularly it will be taken in Middle Earth. I'll try to keep places and people canon, but don't expect the story to follow canon because...well, that just wouldn't make sense. Enjoy! XD~ **

**-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-..-.-**

Unbelievable. That was the only word he could possibly think to apply to Sherlock Holmes. And he was, really he was. The way that he could deduce such impossible conclusions from such small details, the way he never missed anything, the way he failed to understand such apparently simple things simply because he was so very smart. Perhaps that was why he had no idea the effect his 'death' had had on John Watson, or any one else for that matter. Or perhaps he had 'logically concluded' that any 'sentiment' would be gotten over with time. Well, apparently Sherlock hadn't let enough time pass, because John was far from 'over it'.

_"S-Sherlock..." John breathed, or choked, he wasn't sure. Perhaps he had forgotten to breathe._

_Sherlock offered a thin smile in return, as if aware of his effect and amused by it. "Hello, John."_

John furiously scrubbed the dish he was holding, teeth gritted at the sudden memory. Two years, _two years _Sherlock had been 'dead'. And then he just waltzed in without so much as a bloody _by your leave_, and acted as though nothing had changed. That was something else that Sherlock failed to understand then, _everything _had changed.

_John and Sherlock had decided to finish their reunion outside of the restaurant, and in an alley around the corner, John continued the budding anger he'd began unleashing inside. Because once he'd gotten past the joy, and the pain, and the 'sentimental' aspects...he was furious. Particularly with how Sherlock was acting._

_"Two years, Sherlock.** Two years**...you let me think you were dead."_

_"I am aware." Sherlock said plaintively, as if he couldn't see the relevance and felt Watson were unnecessarily stating the obvious. "That was the point." he added, somewhat slowly when Watson didn't respond, as if thinking the other didn't understand the concept which only infuriated the shorter man more._

_"The point? What bloody point! Sherlock...**I thought you were dead**...I **mourned** you. Do you understand? I...Sherlock, you were **gone**." John's voice broke a moment and he coughed to clear his throat as frustration and pain welled up within him. Losing Sherlock had been like losing a part of himself, he hadn't realized how integral Sherlock had become to him until he was gone. He hadn't had a life after returning from the army, he'd been half a man at best, a shell. Sherlock had made him whole, given him a purpose, a home...a family._

_"I'm sorry, John." Sherlock finally said, after a moment of watching the emotions run over John's face. Sherlock apologizing? It was a bloody miracle. "I had to do it, but I never intended for you to be hurt by it."_

_"What did you expect I would be?" John snapped back in exasperation._

_"I assumed you would move on to some degree." Of course, naturally John's life wouldn't be quite complete without him, but he was here to remedy that now._

_"M...**Move on**? Like it's so bloody easy...Sherlock...you don't get it, do you? You're not even really sorry, are you? How can you be? You don't even understand why I'm upset."_

_"You missed me. I...understand the sentiment." Even he, Sherlock Holmes, could admit that he felt...a certain longing for John's presence in their time apart. He was rather used to the other man. Clearly he'd said something wrong again though, because John looked at him as though he'd sprouted another head or some such._

_"Missed you? Are you...Sherlock...losing you...it really...you were my best friend. The closest...the closest thing to family I have outside of Harry and she's not much to go on. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"_

_Sherlock wanted to understand, he really did, if only for John's sake. But he considered John his best friend and surrogate family as well, and he wasn't in hysterics over the whole thing. "Yes, of course."_

_John didn't look convinced. "Okay, then what? What does it mean to you?"_

_"John..."_

_"I'm serious, Sherlock. What does it mean to you?" John demanded._

_Sherlock drew a long breath before he finally replied. "That I hurt you, for which I am truly sorry." he tried an apology again. "I did what I had to do, I had to disappear, John. And any one who looked for me would have looked to you first. You, more than any one, I had to stay away from. Because any one who knows me would know that you are...the most important person in my life." he admitted, and he was relieved when John's expression finally softened, although there was a bitter twist to his lips._

_"I really missed you, Sherlock." John finally said, and his gaze dropped from Sherlock's. "I don't think you really understand, because you're you...but I did. Do. But you were wrong. You could have stayed, we could fixed things...I saw you jump off a building, you lied to me-tried to say that it was all just an act...you just gave up and left me. You didn't trust me."_

_"It wasn't about trust-"_

_"-Then what was it? If you had asked me, I'd have gone with you to lay low. I'dve had your back. I would have helped you fix things."_

_"It wasn't that simple, John."_

_"Yeah...never is with you, is it, Sherlock?" John gave a bitter chuckle and after a moment's silence, John shook his head to himself before he met Sherlock's gaze again. "Things have changed."_

_"Yes, I know...Mycroft told me, you've got your own place now. But Mrs. Hudson has our flat for let again, I've got a bit of money to get us started and-" A snort from John cut him off._

_"I'm sorry, **what**?"_

_Sherlock stared at the smaller man. "I've returned for good, for the moment anyway," he said because it was in his nature to be technical and not disclude the possibility of needing to leave again, "Naturally, we'll live together again. There's no reason not to start back at it, I have a case lined up actually."_

_John's eyes widened slightly and he stiffened when Sherlock mentioned 'for the moment'. Did Sherlock mean to leave again some time? Could he wake up some day and simply find Sherlock missing from his life again, a gaping hole left in his chest where his friend's presence had once filled? "No." he said sharply, and Sherlock actually looked mildly taken aback. "Things have changed." he repeated._

_Sherlock huffed slightly and waved a dismissive hand, his moment of near-sincerity interrupted by his usual arrogance personality. "Yes, as I said, I know. I was being rather accommodating, I thought-"_

_"-**Accommodations**...? Sherlock...you're not human!"_

_"...Yes, well, you've known that all along, haven't you?" Sherlock replied archly, whether from being offended or even possibly hurt, John wasn't sure. Perhaps he was being serious. "All of the sudden it's a problem?"_

_John practically gaped at Sherlock. How could some one, especially some one so smart...possibly be so very stupid? "I have a job, and a life now, Sherlock. I like where I live, and I've gotten used to not being in the line of fire every bloody day. It's not always exciting, but it has it's perks."_

_Sherlock scrunched his nose distastefully. "You've just acclimated to a situation. Once we start working together again, you'll be-"_

_"-You don't get it." John cut him off again. "We won't be working together again, Sherlock. That's done. We aren't living together. I have a roommate. My fiance, Mary."_

_And for possibly the first time since John had met him, [other than seeing Irene Adler in her 'battle suit'] Sherlock looked struck dumb. His eyes immediately went to John's hand, and John shook his head._

_"Took the ring off, had a bit of a messy day at the hospital."_

_"You're engaged." Sherlock stated blankly._

_"That's right."_

_"...But you're...so terrible with women."_

_John stared and then snorted. "Because you're such an expert? Sorry to disappoint you, Sherlock, but once I wasn't caught up in your messes...it was considerably easier to hold a steady relationship."_

_If Sherlock was hurt by the comment, he gave no indication, but he did seem to straighten just slightly. "I see..."_

_"Do you?"_

_Sherlock stared at John a long moment before he inclined his head. "Then...I suppose you don't want to work together...even intermittently?"_

_John had a feeling this was as close as he'd ever come to seeing Sherlock look like a kicked puppy, and angry and hurt as he was by the other, he was irrationally tempted to soothe him. But he bit his tongue on that front. "No, I do not." That was a lie, but he had to draw the line somewhere and it began with Mary now. As he'd said, things had changed._

_"...And what about us?"_

_"Us?" John repeated, a bit surprised by the question and it's meaning._

_"Are we...still friends?" Sherlock actually seemed a little uncertain, an unusual state for him._

_John was surprised indeed and he stared at Sherlock with a lifted brow a moment before he settled on an answer. "We're...not...**not** friends...but Sherlock, you...really hurt me. You did a very...what you did was wrong. I'm not going to lie, I'm angry with you. Things can't be like they were..." Sherlock's shoulders actually seemed to hunch slightly, and he softened a little. "That being said...I do want...you in my life. If possible. If you'd care to be."_

_"I would." Sherlock said, rather softly for once, and he didn't hesitate as John might have expected._

_John sighed and then moved forward to pull Sherlock into a tight hug. "Welcome home, Sherlock."_

_Sherlock stiffened at first, but then his long arms snaked around John and hugged the smaller man tightly. "Thank you, John. It's good to be home..." _

The dish in John's hand shattered when a hard swipe caused it to fly out of his hands and onto the ground. He cursed as he bent down to start cleaning it. Nearly two weeks later, Sherlock's apparent acquiescence was clearly not fated to last. Which was likely how he'd found himself running for his life, _yet again_, missed a date with Mary and work, and wound up with a nearly broken arm. It was still sore. Because Sherlock had made himself sound injured, and John had rushed to his side, and been dragged headlong into a case. Sherlock had tried to play innocent, that he hadn't meant to misrepresent his condition, that he wasn't trying to persuade John back into the fold...but John wasn't stupid, for all that Sherlock seemed to think so. And whatever measure of forgiveness he'd worked up for the other had rather faded in the face of Sherlock's...heartlessness.

John wasn't going to cut Sherlock out of his life, no matter what, he knew he could never do that...but Sherlock was on thin ice and for now, John was determined to ignore him.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Two weeks after Sherlock's reunion with John, he had another case, one involving an apparently cursed ring that caused any one who came into contact with it to go mad. They'd start raving about fantastical realms, and being other people, and all sorts of nonsense before they'd suddenly die a few days later in mysterious circumstances. Four lives had been claimed thus far. Sherlock had had the ring for a full day, against Mycroft's orders to turn it in [since he wanted to study it and didn't believe in curses], and nothing had happened. Not until a pair of mercenaries turned up to steal it for the highest bidder, and he'd gotten himself a rather fierce cut across the chest. Sherlock had bested one mercenary despite the injury and blood, and had another to go, and didn't notice that the ring had turned red after apparently sucking up a bit of his blood.

John, who had forgone dishes in favor of sitting in his chair, frowned when his phone rang and Mycroft's name popped up. He hesitated before he begrudgingly answered. "Don't tell me he wants you to plead his case, Mycroft? It's not going to work. He's on time-out." John huffed.

"John, I believe Sherlock may be in trouble. I need you to go to him. He's at 2231 W. Parlour Main St. I am in the middle of a crucial diplomatic meeting or I would go myself."

John snorted, not believing it for a moment after Sherlock had already just cried wolf. But still, turning to Mycroft for help, was he that desperate then? "Right. He's in trouble. And you'd actually get out from behind your desk. Nice try, Mycroft...I'll talk to you later-"

"-John Watson!" Mycroft's voice was sharp, he'd never heard it so sharp before. He sounded...genuinely worried? "He was investigating a rather...unusual case. I've just been informed that an interested party sent some rather well-paid and very efficient mercenaries after him and he hasn't contacted me in a day and half, although he should have been here last night. Whatever is between you two, I must ask you, John..._please_...you are the only person I can trust my brother's welfare to. I believe he needs you."

John was flabbergasted. And now convinced. "What was that address again?" he asked urgently, already up as sudden concern filled him. Memories of nightmares and restless nights, seeing Sherlock fall over and over again in his mind, teary, bitter days and nights blaming himself...the pain, the loss, he couldn't do it again.

"2231 W. Parlour Main St. Hurry, John. Thank you."

_Sherlock...you'd better be alright. _John's thoughts were anxious as he hailed a taxi and raced off to the appointed address.

Mycroft ended the call and bit his lip as he tapped his phone anxiously on the chair. He'd had a bad feeling, and while he wasn't one for gut instincts and 'feelings'...this was something honed from years of being a big brother. The way he could somehow sense when Sherlock was about to mix unstable chemicals, or try to eat an unsavory mushroom, or examine the inside of a surly dog's mouth...his big brother sense, as sentimental and silly as that was, was practically on fire and if it weren't truly a matter of national importance that he finish this meeting, he would be by his brother's side already.

_Hurry, John._

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Fire. There was fire every where.

Bilbo Baggins stared in horror from his vantage in Erebor as Smaug made good on his wicked intent and headed down to Dale to cause destruction and end the line of Bard. He had to stop him, he had to stop this somehow, but what could he do? Still, he had to try, didn't he? Also, Bofur, Fili, and Kili were down there, they were in trouble...

"Burglar!"

Bilbo whirled around to find Thorin behind him. "Thorin! The town, he's going to burn it, he's going to kill them all-"

"There's no time for that!" Thorin snapped. "Where is it? Where is the Arkenstone?"

Bilbo stared up at the dwarf in stunned silence a moment before he pointed towards Dale. "Smaug is going after Dale, they'll all_ die_."

"Then they'll die! We can't fight a dragon alone, we need the stone to unite the dwarves. Then we can worry about slaying Smaug. If he returns and we haven't got the stone, we're doomed."

Bilbo continued to stare, and was it his imagination, or did Thorin seem more haggard somehow, darker? "Fili and Kili are there, and Bofur. Are you so ready for them to die as well?"

Thorin stiffened, and his eyes widened slightly as if he'd forgotten. His eyes went to the village and he seemed ready to head towards it a moment before he shook his head. "If we leave now, we are good as dead ourselves. Our only hope is to find the Arkenstone. It's the only way to save us, and the others from the wrath of Smaug."

Thorin wasn't perfect; he was angry, and could be foolish, and even selfish...but still...he seemed like a hero to Bilbo somehow, so ready to fight for his people, striving so hard to reclaim his home and family but...now, in this moment...he seemed more like a villain or a madman. "The Arkenstone was in the main chamber, where Smaug was...it should be near the bottom of the pile now."

"Then let's go." Thorin started to turn, but Bilbo shook his head.

"No, I'm going to Dale."

Thorin's eyes widened. "Then you go to die! You're our burglar, your place is here-"

"-My _place_ is where I say it is. And I say it's down there with them. The people of Dale, our company, the people Smaug is going to kill just to spite us. Maybe there is nothing I can, but I can at least try. That stupid stone won't do_ them_ any good, and it's them that I care about. Do what you like, Thorin." Bilbo looked at Thorin expectantly, but when the dwarf simply stared and did not move, Bilbo frowned in disappointment and shook his head. "Suit yourself. Good luck finding your precious stone." He understood to a degree, he truly did. This was Thorin's life pursuit and he was so close, this was what he had built all his hopes on...but in the face of Smaug and the destruction of Dale, of his family and friends...that should have meant something.

Bilbo thought of Fili and Kili, of Bofur, of Bard and his small children, the hopeful people of Dale. "Just hold on." he whispered as he ran as fast as his feet would carry him, straight to Dale and the wrath of Smaug.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

**So...sleepy...hopefully this is all coherent. Definitely some angstyness and such but...it's been two years, Watson had his heart wrenched out, Sherlock's been unwittingly missing his brains out in his own sociopathic way...and so on and so forth. Thorin is going mad. What else is new? Also, does anyone care what Bilbo and Smaug are up to inhabiting Sherlock and John's bodies? Should I bother? Maybe Smaug vs Moriarty? XD Reviews are like verbal hugs and feed my soul! Enjoy!~ Witchy~**


	2. Who Knew a Certain Doctor

**Dun dun dun, the second chapter. I'll try to keep wakeful and such. Tokienite, thanks for the point out! I kept thinking it was Rivertown, and google wouldn't pull it up it would only give me Dale eventually. Laketown. So close. I'll fix that, maybe not tonight, but I will! And some typos I noticed...I digress. Awesome and Dragon...THANKS FOR THE REVIEWS. They're like verbal hugs, and then when I'm stuck at work all day and my phone sends them to me it's like a little slice of joy in my day. XD Anonymous...you are the straw that broke the camel's back. Detective!Smaug and Doctor!Bilbo as well**

**it is! And now to the story, enjoy!~**

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_Crack. Shatter. Crunch. _Repeat.

The crack of wall plaster as a head was slammed against it, the shatter of glass as the owner of said head careened with a nearby shelf and vase, and the crunch of bones as Sherlock's fist delivered a punishing blow to the would-be assassin's face. Sherlock had planned the series of events in his mind, but didn't have much by way of time to be satisfied as the mercenary's partner immediately attacked.

_Injured, end fight quickly_. _Opponent leaves openings on lower left side, organ damage preferable. Incoming kick, followed by roundhouse punch-dodge. _

Sherlock ran through his situation and possibilities as he fought, rather aware of his predicament. The mercenaries were hardly experts...but they were still better than the cheap lot he was used to. He had been careless, perhaps, which would account for how he'd managed to take a long rake from a knife across his chest. Not too deep, but still in need of attention and bleeding irritatingly. This would not have been the case if John Watson had been present, but of course, John was occupied with his..._fiance_. Dreadful things, those. He could see it now, John Watson being stuffed silly with her baked sweets, growing complacent, having..._children_.

Sherlock didn't allow his mind to wander too heavily in the course of the fight, but he had thought things over in great length following his reunion with John. He had expected waterworks and a giant, mushy emotional welcome that he would have generously accepted and vaguely reciprocated. But instead, he'd been met with a moment's sincerity and a bucket's load of anger and accusations. Sherlock had only done what was necessary, he had protected his associates, and kept Watson out of the line of fire. Perhaps he ought to have mentioned that John, Lestrade's, and Mrs. Hudson's lives had hung in the balance but even so...

_"Because you're such an expert? Sorry to disappoint you, Sherlock, but once I wasn't caught up in your messes...it was considerably easier to hold a steady relationship."_

His messes? As if John hadn't loved every life-threatening minute of it? And they had _had_ a steady relationship. It wasn't as if a person needed more than one, and contrary to John's popular opinion, a sexual and, or, 'loving' relationship wasn't required either.

_"Accomodating? Sherlock, you're not human!" _

John had never really called him anything like a freak. Obnoxious, arrogant, annoying, and so on...but he had never taken a truly negative stance on Sherlock, rather, he had admired him. He had been one of very few people not to denounce him as a sideshow act, his..._friend_. And while Sherlock knew at least that they were just a bit of hot words spoken in frustration, such words tended to have a ring of truth to them. To some degree, John really did find Sherlock...inhuman. And the thought put an odd, clenching...sensation in his chest. John said he considered them best friends and family, so then why was that not enough?

Another blow came at him which he dodged easily before delivering what was to be a punishing kick to the side, but the mercenary had more skill than he'd given him credit for. The man dove down to avoid the kick and slashed at Sherlock's leg. A quick twist was enough to make the slash little more than a passing glance, but he wasn't about to give the other man another opportunity. He edged for the door, and more importantly, a little table with a rather heavy metal paper weight. The man darted forward, only to veer suddenly as his attention was attracted elsewhere. Sherlock found the distraction and shouted. "John, duck!"

-.-.-.-.-.-.

The taxi seemed impossibly slow despite meeting little traffic, and John's mind was a litany of morbid _what-ifs _as he rode. When he reached his location he all but hurled the money at the driver before he bounded up the steps of the little building. _Oh, God, please let him be alright...just let him be alright..._ He didn't waste time with knocking as he ran inside, and the first doorway of the hall revealed the man he'd been looking for, although he heard rather than saw him first.

"John, duck!"

John blinked as adrenaline spurred his body into activity and he ducked down just in time to avoid an aerial knife slash. Instincts he hadn't been quite sure he still possessed kicked in as he charged forward and thrust his knee into the man's stomach as he grappled for the knife. He felt a nick on his hand as the knife scratched his hand. But before he could really get anywhere with the fight, he heard a sickening _crack_ and felt his attacker's body go limp. Behind him stood Sherlock, holding a paper weight and visibly covered in blood despite his dark clothes. "Sherlock!"

His attacker forgotten for the moment, [not an issue since he was now quite unconscious], he covered the distance between them and peered at Sherlock's wound in concern. "Are you alright? Lift your shirt, let me have a look at it." he ordered with urgency. The wound didn't seem dire, but he'd made a quick judgment and force the stubborn detective into the hospital ward if he had to.

Sherlock waved him off. "There's no need, I'm perfectly fine. Minor scratch." he said dismissively as he jabbed a foot at the now unconscious attackers to ascertain that they were indeed out cold. "Excellent timing. Mycroft could not have planned it better."

"It is not perfectly fine, let me see." John insisted with a frown, willing to let go the fact that Sherlock knew right off that Mycroft had contacted him.

"As I said, there's no need-let go of my shirt-enough...John, _enough_. Stop."

John had been attempting to held himself to lifting Sherlock's shirt, but he stopped short as the detective spoke sharply. The two stared at each other for a long moment before John muttered. "I should be going, clearly you don't need me here. As usual, you've got it all taken care of." he started to turn by Sherlock caught him by the arm.

"I don't know what I've done to offend you, but I hardly think not being injured is something to be angry about. Rather, shouldn't you be happy that I'm only bleeding and not dying?" Sherlock pointed out, a bit puzzled when John suddenly blanched and jerked his arm away.

"You're too careless, Sherlock." John finally said, through slightly gritted teeth. "You've only got one life."

"I am aware." Sherlock said bluntly, and clearly that was again the wrong thing to say because John's eyes narrowed. Rather than give him the opportunity to scold Sherlock further, he turned suddenly and headed over to a corner to pick something up from behind a chair. He stilled suddenly, as though actually caught by surprise, before he headed over to John with a small frown.

"What is it?" John wasn't settled on matters, but Sherlock had a queer look on his face and he glanced at the other's palm. A plain-looking gold ring with a reddish tinge lay on said palm, and realization struck him. "The 'cursed' ring? So that's why...them." he pointed to the mercenaries as he worked it out before he looked back at Sherlock. "That's the ring, isn't it?" he asked, when Sherlock said nothing and continued to stare oddly at the ring. "Sherlock?"

"It's...warm."

"Uh...well, you are wearing a jacket..." John pointed out slowly.

"Not me." Sherlock muttered. "The ring. It's...warm. And it's...pulsating."

"Excuse me?"

"Impossible..."

"What is?"

"Unless it's a design of the ring...but the blood wouldn't be warm any longer.."

"What are you talking about?" But Sherlock wasn't paying him any mind, he seemed lost in thought, gaze transfixed on the ring as he muttered to himself John frowned before he snatched the ring from Sherlock's grasp and nearly dropped the ring when he actually felt it. The ring was warm, almost hot, and indeed it felt...as if it had a pulse, like blood flowing through veins. John breathed in sharply as he felt a prick on his hand, and he realized where the knife had nicked him earlier was bleeding slightly...and the blood seemed to dribble from his hand right..._into_ the ring? "Sherlock, did you see that?"

Sherlock's eyes were just slightly wide as he finally met John's gaze. "There's no such thing as cursed rings." he said, as if to convince himself. It reminded John of the Baskerville case and Sherlock's panic when he was faced with something outlandish that he could not readily explain.

"Tell that to the bloody vibrating ring." John retorted as it suddenly seemed to grow hotter. "Ow!" he dropped the ring then, and it gave one sharp clatter on the floor before it simply fell as though shoved down rather than bouncing around for a second.

Sherlock and John exchanged a glance before Sherlock bent to pick it up...only to have a bright light suddenly erupt from the ring, one that was hot and blinding and snatched away their senses. John felt as though his body were being pulled apart, a burning pain washed over him and he thought he might have tried to scream except that no sound came out. Or perhaps he couldn't hear it, he couldn't seem to see either, or feel anything really.

And then everything just went black.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Bilbo rushed towards Lake Town, uncertain of how he could help but still determined to do so. That the people were presently in danger was entirely the fault of Bilbo and the dwarves. They had woken up Smaug and baited him, lured the townspeople into trusting them with sweet promises and honeyed words. But the truth was, it seemed that Thorin would let the whole world burn if it meant that he had his precious stone. Not even for Bag End, his much beloved home, would he sacrifice even a town full of strangers. Let alone his cousins as friend, as Fili, Kili, and Bofur were to Thorin.

He heard a terrible roar that made his blood run cold and sent a chill down his spine. Smaug hurled fire into the air, but he barely let the flames like Lake Town. He clearly intended to play with them, to keep the screaming, running people in panic before he burned them alive. And all to spite them and end the line of the one man who might be able to stop him. Bilbo thought again of Bard's children and pushed his small body to it's limit, till his lungs were burning, after he finally descended the mountain and ran towards Lake Town. Would he make it in time?

Would he live if he did?

"Agh!" A sudden pain over took him and he clutched at his heart as he misstepped and found himself barreling over a rock onto the ground before him. His heart was aching, clenching in his chest and his body started to tingle and feel as though it were burning. Was this Smaug's doing? He cast pain-filled eyes towards Lake Town, startled as he had looked up just in time to see Smaug suddenly veer downwards in a hard landing that shook the area a bit. Bilbo had no time to ponder it as he suddenly grew very tired, and he was lost to his sense long before his head hit the ground.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

**ZzZzzzZz. Again...hopefully coherent. XD So tired. Fight scenes are always so...irksome. Unless you're watching them and then they're hopefully quite interesting. I digress. Next chapter, Dragon!Sherlock and Hobbit!John, and Detective!Smaug and Doctor!Bilbo. Thanks for the reviews, faves, and alerts...they brighten my soul and encourage me to write. XD Enjoy!~Witchy~ **


	3. That Doctor Was a Hobbit

**So. I got sick, and then I got better, but my motivation was shot and I kept telling myself I had some research I needed to do before I kept writing...and lots of time passed. So I'm just gonna write and take a little liberty here. It occurred to me that Lake Town [which I originally called Dale and then River Town and darnit, it's LAKE TOWN! -thank you for that-] doesn't seem stable enough to support Smaug's weight, but it all looked like mountainous areas near the town. So. Land masses are closer to Lake Town than they probably actually are, and have flat surfaces. Don't hate me. As for Moriarty, there was a huge influx of joy at the prospect of Smaug kicking his rear. And then someone who told me how overabused he is, which I can understand. So. Compromise. SmaugvsMoriarty will happen. But I'll try to make Moriarty's part in this story...not so typical. Thank you for the reviews, alerts, and faves, despite my negligence it's all made me quite happy. Enjoy!~**

**~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~**

Smoke. The acrid scent of smoke. Smoke meant a fire. Fire meant danger. People were screaming. There was a fire.

_He had to help them_.

John jerked awake as the disjointed thoughts crossed his mind. The scent of smoke and burnt wood did indeed hang in the air, accompanied by the roar of terrified screams. What the bloody Hell was going on? He remembered Sherlock and a ring, and now...?

He turned his gaze forward with the expectation of seeing a familiar expanse of streets and buildings, what he found instead made his blood run cold and the air leave his lungs. _What the..._

The land was vast and mostly empty, a mess of grasses and trees and hillside. A body of water lay before him and in the not-so-distant distance was a wooden town aloft in the water. Smoke plumes rose from the town where wooden buildings had caught fire and people ran screaming, some to flee, others in attempt to save their ravaged homes. It looked like something out of a medieval movie, and John gaped. Had he been knocked unconscious? What manner of dream was he having? John shut his eyes tightly and willed himself to wake up, he pinched his arm for good measure and winced when it hurt. It wasn't supposed to hurt in a dream, was it?"

A wailing scream pierced the veil of his confusion, and his eyes shot open again as in the distance he could see where a piece of building, eaten through by the fire, had fallen and trapped a little girl near the edge of her floating town and kept her from her [presumably] mother.

"Mama!" The girl screamed, and the words were a bit hazy but John could make them out. The fire kept the pair apart and a few steps were all that lay between the girl and a plunge into the water.

"No! Don't move!" John called out, although it did no good, she couldn't have heard him. Lord knew how he'd managed to hear _her_, nothing made sense.

John pulled himself up slowly, and he was aware then that his body just didn't..._feel_ right. He looked down, stunned. The clothes weren't his own, but that wasn't the worst of it. Strange, hairy feet greeted him from a body that seemed too small and too stumpy. The limbs didn't seem to move quite as limbs ought to, and as he spoke aloud, "What the-" he stopped short as he found his voice was a little different; lilting and perhaps slightly higher. He put a hand to his head and was greeted with a mess of hair. What was going on?

Another scream came forth, carried across the water, one that separated itself from the others. The little girl, she was going to fall-he had to help her-the instinct was ingrained into him. But nothing made sense, it was a dream that wasn't a dream, a body that couldn't be his own and could only be from a dream [which it wasn't?], and how did this happen? Where was Sherlock?

_Sherlock_.

He'd been cut, he had been bleeding and stubborn, and where was he now? Sherlock and that strange little ring...

"Mama!"

John cursed as he scanned the area and spotted a little boat, and before he really knew what he was doing, he'd hopped in and began a furious rowing towards the town. It was half-way on fire, people were in a panic, this situation made no sense but if he didn't help that girl...well, helping her seemed like the only sensible thing he could make out in this situation.

John was several feet off yet when she fell in, and he doubted a girl that young would know how to swim. The mother screamed and John didn't hesitate, he plunged into the water and maneuvered his..._new body_ to move. He was aware of the weight of a sword on his hip, and he had no time to dwell on it as he caught the small form and hefted her up. She screamed and squirmed, and it was all he could do to keep them afloat as he began an awkward dog-paddle to the other side of the wooden extension.

"My baby!" The woman had been screaming and crying, and when John shoved the girl upwards in a shove, she grabbed her and held on for dear life.

John, for his part, had thought to swim back to the boat until he felt a pair of strong arms heft him up from the water. It wasn't until he stood beside a man that he realized just how small he presently was.

"It's him! It's that hobbit!"

"He's responsible! He brought Smaug's wrath upon us!"

_Hobbit? Smaug? _

"Listen-there's been some kind of mistake, I'm not really-"

"Maybe it's him Smaug wants!"

"Yeah, give him the hobbit!"

Somehow the mother and daughter had grown from being the only pair present, to being surrounded by a group of people dressed in strange period-clothing. There will still minor fires being fought, but the worst of it had passed and although John didn't know it, the lull in panic had been due to the crash of 'Smaug' on the shoreline.

John took a few steps back, only to realize he was in the same predicament the little girl had been in. Although he could swim, and reach the boat, he still had no idea _what the bloody Hell_ was going on. And before he could make a decision either way, he found himself being grabbed and hauled up by a couple of the men.

"Let's send him to the dragon!"

"D-Dragon?" John spluttered, certain that he had misheard, or that this was some kind of dream. Perhaps he'd hit his head, or Sherlock had tried a hallucinatory drug on him, or-

-There was a loud roar not far off, and John felt his heart sink into his stomach as the 'misheard' word took on a terrifying new meaning.

_Dragon?!_

...

Sherlock was aware of a buzzing in his skull, accompanied by a curious throbbing on what he presumed was his arm. His mind instantly attempted to piece together the events prior to the instance that might have led to his situation and pain. Oddly enough, his brain didn't seem quite eager to follow suit and while he did quickly enough recall the unexpected meet-up with John, and the curious, blood-sucking ring, he couldn't quite remember a thing beyond that. And the information had come sluggishly. Was he drugged, then?

Sherlock cracked his eyes open and was greeted with a sky that seemed..._off_ somehow. He couldn't place it, as the sky was perfectly blue and the clouds were as they always were and yet, it just seemed different. Strange. And then he realized something about the buzzing in his skull. It wasn't a buzzing at all, really, it was a cacophany of sounds. More to the point, very loud, very distinct _screaming_.

Sherlock jerked up, or at least tried to, and he was taken aback as his body weight shifted entirely wrongly. He was aware of the pain in his arm as it shot through him like a jolt, and he was aware just as quickly that it wasn't his arm at all that hurt: it was his _wing_.

But Sherlock didn't have _wings_.

In an uncharacteristic moment of panic, several things happened at once.

Sherlock became aware that his body was not his body at all, and wouldn't move appropriately.

He realized that the reason it wouldn't move appropriately was because he was accustomed to a human body, and this was far from a human body.

And lastly, he realized after some flailing and squirming that was quite ineffective for his movement, that he was a _dragon_.

It wasn't till the sound echoed in his ears [did dragons have ears?] that he realized he'd let out a loud roar. Perhaps he'd meant to scream, Sherlock wasn't sure.

He flexed his hands, or claws rather, and found that they moved stiffly and lacked the mobility of human fingers. They also felt..._powerful_, to such an innate degree that he felt he might be able to crumble a rock simply by forming a fist. Not to mention, the claw itself was at least as big as a car. Sherlock took stock of the fact that he had wings, one of which seemed injured, he had a tail, a mess of dark scales, his vision was strange and a bit sideways, but crisp, and his hearing was quite turned up. His body didn't work nearly like a human's did, movement wasn't easy to get the hang of, and he felt a strange warmth in the pit of his...stomach.

That all aside, the most pressing matter of all was also the most basic.

This was all, of course, _impossible_.

_Dragons do not exist. This must be a dream. Perhaps the cut on my chest was more severe than I'd calculated. I must then be in the hospital on a morphine drip for pain, although I was certain the laceration wasn't that severe...perhaps John overreacted, or meant to prove a point. I don't recall losing consciousness though, and why should I have such a vivid, strange dream? _

As the thoughts circulated in his mind, he was also thinking about the facts he had and had accumulated. Dragons had been unnecessary information, and as he rifled through his mind palace, he found little about them besides that they were common pieces in folklore and were oft-involved in myths regarding knights and princesses.

That all being said, it certainly felt realistic, even for a lucid dream. Experimentally, he extended a clawed hand and slammed it down on a large rock beside him. Sherlock had thought to make use of the theory that pain woke you from a dream, but he'd been right on only one count. He could indeed smash a rock to bits with his claw, [he hadn't even needed a fist, actually], but whether or not it was a dream-the act wouldn't leave so much as a scratch on the dragon's claw. Sherlock scarcely felt it at all.

The minute scents in the air, which he realized he could smell in particular detail, the clarity of his vision and the strange landscape around him, the screams and the not-so-far-off wooden town float in the water, the odd sky...the details were all so very..._particular_. It lacked the vague qualities of a dream despite how lucid he was. And his body _felt_ real, which was quite impossible, this was all just _impossible_, and yet, despite himself...panic, not unlike the time in the little bar during the Hounds of Baskerville case, assailed him.

_Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. _

Dragons were impossible, and so was being one. But that this was a dream also seemed unlikely, not impossible, but unlikely. Based upon his favored phrase, however, logic would dictate that it _must_ be a dream. Which meant that he simply needed to find a way to wake up and be rid of the strange dream-world in which he'd found himself.

"No, listen to me, _please_! I am not whoever you think I am! My name is _John Watson_, this is all a mistake-"

Sherlock's head perked [how else could he describe it?] as he heard a vaguely familiar voice speaking in an all-too familiar way. A dragon's hearing was truly phenomenal, because when he looked for the source, he found a dragon's eye sight to be equivalent when he realized the source was quite a ways off in a boat.

The man was small, a little stumpy, with an unkempt head of hair and clothes that seemed outdated in comparison to those of his era. But the face was the same, it _looked_ like John, which was more than he could say of himself. This had to be a dream then, didn't it? He'd gone and become a dragon and his opinion of John being physically small had manifested in..._that_.

His hands appeared to be tied behind his back, with a firm pair of hands to keep him still as he struggled. The boat soon reached the shore and he was shoved to land, and he stayed standing only by virtue of a hand that gripped his collar.

"Throw him to Smaug and make a run for it!" One man said.

"Perhaps his anger will abate."

"It's all the hobbit's fault, and those dwarves!"

"Please! This is a mistake!" A hand slammed across the man's-_dream John's_-face.

"Quiet, you fithy hobbit! This is your fault!"

An irrational anger filled Sherlock then. Irrational because it was a dream John, and not the real thing, and he was a soldier who could take care of himself and yet, as always...he was possessive and protective of the older man in a way that he could still not understand. He'd tried to chalk it up to all sorts of rational explanations, but it required going against his policy of forming theories from facts. Because none of his logical explanations ever fully explained why John was so very..._important_ to him.

"John!" Sherlock called out as -was instinct a fair word?-propelled him forward and he crossed the remaining distance between them, aware that his attempt to speak had come out only as a roar. His mouth didn't work correctly, his tongue was large and slithery and his jaw seemingly restricted. As for his movements, they were shaky, and jerky, but he'd managed to move forward as a dog might, on all fours.

The roar was enough to make the ground rumble a bit, and the terrified men around Dream-John stumbled. As for Dream-John, his eyes widened in a look of terror he'd never seen on John before. Except, oddly enough, the thought crossed his mind that John [for all that he could see from his far vantage] seemed less terrified than the day Sherlock had stood on that roof and faked his suicide.

What a ridiculous thought.

"O-Oh great and glorious Smaug! P-Please accept this offering! Eat the hobbit and spare our village! We would never seek to challenge you!" They hurled Dream-John forward and began to flee.

Something flickered inside of Sherlock, something foreign that he didn't understand. He might have called it rage, but that wasn't quite it either. Either way, the urge to follow the men, to _break_ them, slithered like a serpent in his stomach. He could crush them all, he could make them plead and beg and never hurt John again, he could-

"Oh, lord, let me wake up-this is a dreamthisadreamthisisadream...I'm dreaming...if this is one of Sherlock's tricks, I swear I'll kill him myself...oh, wake up, John...wakeupwakeup_wakeup_, _damnit_!"

Although it was more muttered than spoken aloud, Sherlock heard each word clearly and it struck him as odd that the Dream-John thought himself a dream. It tended to lend creedence to the theory that it _wasn't_ a dream...but Sherlock had already ruled that as _impossible_. Even so, the urge to settle the other's man's panic wouldn't abate and Sherlock made an awkward attempt to move towards him slightly.

Dream-John noted that, and didn't care for it at all. He scooted back at first, his hands still tied behind his back, before he managed to stumble to his feet and back away slowly. "Good dragon...good dragon...just...oh, lord." Dream-John's eyes were wide, and Sherlock noted the way they flitted about as he scanned the area. A soldier through and through. Rather than be a deer-in-the-headlights, he assessed his area. Plans of attacks, means of escape.

Not that they would likely be any good against a dragon. Sherlock rather doubted that that had ever come up in army basics.

Sherlock considered his options. If he was going to be stuck in a presumably morphine-induced dream, he could at least settle the Dream-John down, because the other's terror and discomfort _bothered _him. He laid down as gently as he could, although he rather flopped, and the force caused Dream-John to fall on his rear. His eyes widened and he started to rise again, so Sherlock lifted a claw and held it out in an open-palm style, to show that he meant no threat.

However, the sight of the giant, clawed dragon's hand seemed to have the opposite effect and John scrambled to his feet as he turned to run. It was never wise to do that when facing an animal, but Sherlock supposed it was a reasonable reaction given the circumstances.

"John, it's _me_, it's _Sherlock_." he tried to say, but it came out as a rumbling growl. It would have been a pain if John fled, so he snaked his arm out [he was rather getting the hand of the movements, he thought] and kept John encircled.

Dream-John jerked and stumbled back from the appearance of the scaly dragon's arm, but behind him was the actual dragon and hardly a good choice either. He'd heard it growl, and dream or not, he wasn't looking to be _eaten_. But he had no weapons, and he doubted that even if he had his gun on him, it would work against a _bloody dragon_. What could he do?

John whirled around to face the massive creature, and he was a bit taken aback to find it staring at him rather intently. There was something oddly..._familiar_ about the gaze. A mixture of not-quite-amusement and not-quite-exasperation, and something..._arrogant_...with just a hint of not-quite-concern.

The 'not-quites' were something he had to apply to Sherlock. Because he, contrary to what he might like to think, _was_ in possession of emotions. They just didn't translate well from Sherlock.

If this was a dream, he hadn't actually gone so far as to dream up Sherlock as a dragon, had he? Because that was just too ridiculous. Sherlock would probably love it though, he could practically hear the other's voice in his head, practically see that infuriating, familiar smirk.

"_So you think I'm a dragon, John? I had no idea you found me __**that **__impressive. How quaint._"

John scowled at the thought, but it faded too quickly as the dragon's massive head leaned a little closer. He put up his hands, palms splayed open, little good that it would do. "N-Nice dragon." he cursed the hint of panicked stammer in his voice, but who could blame him, it was a _dragon_ for crying out loud. "You wouldn't want to eat me, I'm...skin and bones...and apparently very hairy...so, yes...not a good meal choice. So sorry." All the while, he edged towards the open space between the dragon and the reach of his arm.

Sherlock almost, almost found Dream-John's reaction comical. He was terrified of being eaten by a dragon. Wouldn't that be something? The notion of hanging pictures of dragons up in their flat occurred to him, but it was a fleeting thought and pushed aside all the faster as he recalled it was no longer _their_ flat. Sherlock was alone.

Sherlock would, he supposed, _always_ be alone.

"I'm not..." Sherlock started, only to hear the rumble, and he focused his desire and tried to gain control of his dream, he willed himself to speak. "**I'm** not **a dra**gon..." he heard snippets of actual words come forth from his massive mouth, through rows of teeth and a slithery tongue. His voice was foreign and unfamiliar, a rumbling, dark tone with a light accent.

John heard a growl and felt his heart plummet again, only to hear..._words_ from the dragon. 'Not...gon..." Not gone? What did that mean?

"Oi! Dragon! Ya big scaly lug, look this way!" A voice called out. Not far off, a long-haired man [not quite a man, actually] stood hailing the dragon.

The dragon did turn to look, he lifted his massive head to stare down at the newcomer.

John was startled enough not to think on his feet to run, but that quickly changed as he found himself being waved at from the corner of his eyes. Another long-haired man, a little thinner and taller, urgently waved him over. He had no idea what was going on, but he recognized an ally when he saw one. John made a break for it in the split seconds that the dragon was distracted, and he darted over a bush and to the man with a sigh of relief.

"Come on, burglar, we've got to run, Bofur can only hold his attention a moment." The man said.

He supposed 'Bofur' was the other man, and he had no idea why he was being called a burglar. John started in an urgent whisper. "Listen, I'm not-"

There was a low, rumbling roar behind them and John took that to mean that the dragon had noticed his escape. The man grabbed his arm and yanked him forward as they ran for it. Rather than take them back to the water, they continued on land and into the thick copse of trees surrounding the clearing. John wasn't sure how much a few trees would slow the dragon down, but it still felt safer than being plum out in the open. This dream was just too much.

"This way!" The man urged, and he jerked John suddenly. Before long, he found himself ushered into a thin slit that gave way to a small cave that seemed to extend into a tunnel beyond. "We can stay here for the moment...Bofur will head another way." he spoke in the lowest whisper, aware unlike John of how well a dragon could hear.

"Can he out run a dragon?" John's incredulity took precedence then, along with his natural inclination to protect human life.

"He's a slippery fellow, our Bofur. He'll manage." The man's words were light but his expression was tight as he glanced towards the cave. "Kili is still abed from the poison, but the elven woman, Tauriel...she did something to save him. I had not wanted to leave him, but Bofur and I saw the danger you were in. Those villagers...and yet I cannot wholly blame them, as we brought Smaug's wrath upon them." he said grimly before he turned to John. "Why are you here alone? Where is Thorin? Did he find the stone?"

John blinked, none of that had really made sense to him. "I was trying to tell you...look, I'm not this 'hobbit' or whoever you think I am. My name is John Watson, and this is all dream. One I'll hopefully be waking up from soon." he added the last bit as a mutter to himself.

The man stared at him silently a moment before he grabbed John by the chin and began to inspect him in the dim light. "Did you hit your head? Were you wounded?" he seemed to recall that John was tied up then, and set about freeing him from his bonds. "If that is an attempt to joke," he suddenly said, as if it just occurred to him, "This is not the time, burglar."

A roar sounded from outside and John was inclined to agree.

...

Sherlock heard a shout and turned to regard a man who seemed to be purposefully calling him out. He analyzed the man and his reasons, but not fast enough to have noted Dream-John's escape before he was already tucked in the woods. Instinct nearly had him follow, but then he realized it didn't matter, really. This was only a dream, after all, there was no point in pursuit.

But even so, as he watched the small form that apparently contained 'John' in this dream world, as he saw the man beside him propel him with an arm on his back...an irrational thought roared in the back of his mind.

_**Mine**_.

Sherlock was on his feet before he'd even realized he'd planned to move. Did he mean to follow, then? But why? Wouldn't it be easier to simply wait until he woke up? But dream or not, that just seemed so very _boring_.

The man who'd inititally distracted him had taken off, which did not surprise him. However, as he regarded the trees before him, he realized pursuit was not an easy task. He could barely maneuver the dragon's body, and short of bowling over the trees, he wasn't going to make it through the close-knit bunch. And although he had wings, one was injured and still smarted [strange for a dream], and he wouldn't have known how to use them anyway.

Sherlock considered his options, and in the end, supposed that one dream forest didn't matter so much.

He experimented a few times before he found a passable means of movement in his dragon's body, walking on all fours again as he began to overturn trees to traverse the forest. Scents and sounds assailed him, but he was fairly certain that he could pick out Dream-John from among them. And as he moved closer, he could hear John faintly, something about waking up from this dream. He certainly spoke convincingly, as the real John might have in such an impossible situation. But Sherlock didn't brood about impossible situations, his current actions were only to alleviate boredom.

"John!" he called out, and grimaced as it again came out as a loud roar. This dream was remarkably irritating.

...

Bilbo awoke slowly and with a groan, his head felt about ready to split in two. He rubbed at his face and thought he should have a nice, large cup of tea...and then he remembered, not for the first time, that he was no longer at Bag End. He was...he was...

Bilbo's eyes shot open as he recalled just where he was. Lake Town was ablaze, the people needed his help, and Fili, Kili, and Bofur besides. Bilbo got to his feet quickly, only to draw short as he realized his body felt...strange. And moreover, he was no longer outside in view of Lake Town, instead he seemed to be in a room. A _strange_ room. "What...?" The sound of his own voice was vaguely unfamiliar, and he looked down at himself, stunned by what he saw.

His body was a little taller, a little longer, he noted that right off. And there were shoes on his feet which even through the shoes seemed so very _small_. The clothes were wrong, and as he ran a hand over his hair, he noted that it was barely there. What was going on?

A clatter to his side drew his attention, as he watched a tall and lithe man with black hair groan and wake up as well. The man had knocked over a cup upon awakening, and Bilbo stared as blue eyes shot open and regarded him a moment.

The man blinked once. Twice. And then.

"_Little thief_...you've-" he drew short and seemed caught off-guard by something.

The 'little thief' caught his attention, and Bilbo stared wide-eyed as the man jerked to his feet and began to pat himself down with a stunned, horrified expression.

"_What is this_?" The man snarled, and the ferocity in his tone along with the glare in his eyes confirmed what the 'little thief' nickname had made him suspect.

The man before him was _Smaug_.

Bilbo simply stared as he gaped. He was in a strange body, in a strange place if the odd items around them were anything to go by, and not but four feet away was a human Smaug. Was this a dream, or some sort of terrible spell? If it were an enchantment, who would cast such a thing and why?

There was a sudden thump, and Bilbo's gaze found Smaug where he'd apparently tried to walk. But he unused to a human body and method of movement, the lack of weight of his wings to counter-balance him and a stiff body meant for walking on fours.

Smaug made a noise he thought might have been a roar, were Smaug still a dragon, but it came out a loud, choked noise from him in his present form. Then his eyes locked on Bilbo from his spot on the ground, as he stumbled on shaky legs to pull himself up.

"I said, _what is this_."

Bilbo jumped as Smaug stumbled towards him, and the other glared at him and bared his teeth a little. "I-I don't know." Bilbo stammered slightly. Human or not, Smaug was plenty intimidating.

"What do you mean, you do not _know_? You expect me to believe that you had no part in...in _this_?" Smaug, who managed to stand on two legs, gave him a venemous look.

"It wasn't me! I don't even know what _this_ is! I don't have any powers, I'm only a hobbit!"

"And until a hobbit came to my lair...such a thing as this never happened before." Smaug snarled in reply.

"I truly don't know-" A hand shot out to grip his neck, and Bilbo gasped as fingers dug into his throat.

"Continue to lie, and I will kill you where you stand." Smaug said slowly, as he punctuated the last words a bit.

"I'm...not...lying." Bilbo wheezed as he tried to pry Smaug's fingers off of him, but he seemed latched on well and tight and he didn't want his neck spanned in the meanwhile.

"Then I'll kill you just because." Smaug snarled. "I will have answers, _hobbit_."

"If y-you...kill me...you might never...go home." Bilbo wheezed, and after a moment, Smaug released him with a disgusted expression.

"Explain." he said lowly, a command that was to be instantly obeyed. And even without his dragonic essence, he was an alarming creature.

Bilbo found himself released and he rubbed his throat as he cast a cautious glance around and then addresed Smaug. "I-I don't know a whole lot about magic...but if that is what this is...then it may be that whatever did this to us, needs _both_ of us to return."

Smaug's nostrils flared, and he had the sense that if Smaug could have, he would have had smoke coming his nose. "What nonsense is that?"

"Equivalency in magic...Gandalf, that is...a wizard of the grey, he told me-"

"A wizard told you? Then you _do_ know the cause of this!" Smaug snarled, and he made to grab for Bilbo who was ready the second time around and stumbled backwards out of Smaug's reach.

"I don't! I'm only saying that he spoke of equivalency in magic before...that things must maitain a blanace..."

"How very _convenient_, hobbit." Smaug took a few, awkward steps forward and while he didn't make a grab for Bilbo-who was now backed into a wall-his face loomed close. "So you believe I must keep you alive to regain my form?"

"I don't know." Bilbo said honestly, more panicked than he cared to admit. Rationally, he might actually be able to take the dragon down in his present form. But something about knowing that 'the chiefest and greatest calamity of the age' _Smaug_ was in that form made him terrifying. But the truth of their situation was also terrifying. He had no idea where they were, or what had happened. "But it's possible."

Smaug stared at him a long moment, his teeth bared again before he pulled away. "Very well, little thief...I will _allow_ you to live for now...but when this is put to rights, I will enjoy crushing your bones with my fangs."

Bilbo swallowed hard at that. This was happening very fast and he was very much confused. What had happened to Lake Town? Where were they? Did the others make it out okay?

"Understood." Bilbo said with more confidence than he felt, and because Smaug seemed to be expecting an answer.

Smaug's lip curled [he was getting hang of human expressions quickly], and then he seemed to set about trying to discover every nook and cranny of his new body. "The bodies of men are _vile_." he snarled as he poked and prodded at himself.

Bilbo, missing his familiar limbs and feet, was a bit inclined to agree. And he watched as the dragon-turned-man grew tired of prodding at himself and began to explore the room, to touch and take in every thing within reach. He stopped before a window in his slow, awkward gait, and as he looked outside-Bilbo heard the dragon whisper. "_Impossible_."

Bilbo, cautious but curious himself, made his way to the window and peeked out. What he saw caused him to lose his breath a moment.

Strange metal creatures roamed the land, a flurry of people dressed in strange clothing wandered about, many of them seemed to be speaking to their hands. "Impossible." Bilbo echoed, because it should have been.

Bilbo wished that it was.

**~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~**

**I've been drifting in and out of consciousness for...since dragon!Sherlock's final part. So...tired...but I wanted to finish and I seemed so close at the time...XD I hope this is all coherent. XD And that my next update won't be such a long ways off. I'm really into SteveXBucky stories right now, I don't usually dip into different fandoms at the same time, but...I tried. XD In part due to the kind reviews and such I've been receiving. Thank you all for the faves, reviews, and alerts. They're like verbal hugs for me. By the by, they're back in the flat. I'll come up with some nifty explanation for it. It was easier than having them start out in that one room, or they'd never find their way over. XD Enjoy! Witchy~ **


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